Split Second
by lemonn
Summary: Sherlock grudgingly looks after a lost girl for Lestrade. A split second decision changes everything. "Sherlock fell. He thought he could her screaming. Then no more."
1. Split Second

_Like any other animal, Sherlock is malleable to the force of physics._

_Once he had grasped her upper arm, hard until there was bruises, shoving her onto the pavement in a gesture that would be aggressive in any other situation, he became no more than his brain's support machine, a mesh of bones and muscle and skin, vessels and tubes, glands and organs about to be exposed to the punch of metal at 40mph._

_No more than that._

* * *

"I have to look after _that_?"

Sherlock stared at the child who had just walked into Lestrade's office - its scruffy jeans, brown hair in plaits, quizzical face - and stood up.

"She'll be easy to-"

"Do not even attempt to lie to me. Get one of your employees to look after it - aren't they here to do what you say?"

"It..._She,_ Sherlock!"

Lestrade glanced apologetically at the 8 year old girl, but she was busy staring at Sherlock with a mixed (but mainly scared) expression. Sherlock stared back at the girl, as if waiting for her to morph from an 'it' to a 'she'.

"This is a busy case," Lestrade said, picking up a file off his desk before starting for the door. "The force are stretched as it is." Lestrade stopped at the door, and put his hand on the girl's shoulder. "Just sit with her for five minutes when I get John's witness statement? Please. Honestly," Lestrade said, his hand tightening on the girl's shoulder. "I wouldn't pick you either... But her parents will be here soon when they realize she's wandered off- just for 10 minutes!"

"That time has doubled."

"Walk her to the park or something. You'll be fine!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but, for once, Lestrade was quicker and already out the door.

* * *

The hot day melted Sherlock's tolerance as they walked, the girl a few feet behind him, picking at the scab on her arm.

"Don't do that," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"Don't-" Sherlock turned around and pointed at the girl's arm. "You don't want your parents knowing where you went."

"No," the girl agreed, and continued picking.

"And picking at the scab is making it more obvious. I'd learnt by your age that gravelly wounds are the telltale of all adventure. Parents don't like adventure. Or letting you do what you want."

The girl looked up, before smiling slightly and rolling down her shirt sleeve.

* * *

"Why couldn't you have run off more efficiently?" asked Sherlock, as the girl lay against a tree, licking at an ice cream. "I could be sorting through my ash collection right now."

"Go then. I've got an ice cream," said the girl, as if that was all she needed in life. "Do you want some?"

Sherlock did not bother to say no.

* * *

They sat down on the park bench. Sherlock sat awkwardly, his black coat sucking too much heat from the sunlight. "Next time, don't access Soho via Oxford Street. Foolish."

The sun was bright and the girl squinted as she looked up at Sherlock, her legs kicking, unable to reach the grassy floor. "Are you really an adult?"

Sherlock snorted.

* * *

"What are you doing?" asked the girl as Sherlock bent down, running his finger along the footprint at the foot of a tree.

"Working out whose shoe this is."

"A game!"

"_The _game."

Three minutes later, Sherlock drew back from the print and said it was a 40 year old builder's.

"That was amazing! Do it on me."

Sherlock faltered.

"Maybe later."

* * *

The mobile rung, as Sherlock had expected. He turned away from the girl, who was writing her name in the mud with a twig.

"Just got out from the interview,"said the voice quickly from the other end. "Where are you two? Is she still alive? I'll be amazed if-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "This girl is not seeing her parents again."

"What do you-"

"She's being abused."

"Sherlock..." The voice was soft, slightly sad, a lower pitch at the end of the word as if deflating. "Are you _sure _about this?"

"This is me you're talking to, John."

"Her parents just arrived, though. They seem-"

"Nice?"

"Well, yeah."

"_They seem nice_. Wonderful! I'm convinced! I mean, we all know that criminals can't lie!"

There was a pause. "Sherlock...are you sure you're not just seeing, well..."

"What?"

"_Yourself_ in her?"

Sherlock lent a hand against the nearest tree and rested his head against it before speaking. "Please do not..."

"Not every child was like you, Sherlock," said John quietly. "They run off, they explore, and it's not always escape... not always because the parents don't...because they're not interested."

"Just interview them."

"Sherlock..."

"Please. John."

* * *

Sherlock lent down opposite the girl. "You want me to do it on you?"

She looked up from her drawing. "Yeah!"

"Okay."

Sherlock sat crossed-legged on the mud opposite her, and studied her.

"You should look at me with a microscope," she said, smiling widely. "That would be cool."

"I don't need a microscope...You play the piano."

"Yeah!"

"Badly."

She shook her head. "No. I'm nearly a grade one now."

"Badly," said Sherlock again. "Your favourite food is chocolate, specifically Dairy Milk. You have a rabbit, which you spend more time with than other children - or your parents."

Gently he took her hand and turned it over, so he looked at her palm. He placed her hand on the ground; she complied.

"You dig your nails into your palm when you're upset."

Sherlock pointed to her bare knee through the rips in her jeans; there was a scab there.

"You don't wear plasters." He didn't take her eyes off her. "Most parents make their children wear plasters. Being over-protective, a side-effect of caring. Some parents just don't care, and don't give their children plasters."

"Mine just fell off."

"Hm," said Sherlock.

* * *

They reached the road opposite the police station. Before they crossed, Sherlock turned to the girl, crouching down - a practicality nothing more.

"I understand that it's hard," he said, quietly. "But I want you to tell me if your parents hurt you. Or let you run off, because they can't be bothered to follow. Or say things to you that hurt. Tell me now and I can have it that you never have to see them again."

"They don't," she said, and it was almost like she was comforting him.

"You don't have to lie anymore-"

"I'm telling the truth though!" She giggled. "You're silly. What's your name?"

She is looking at him, frowning with dark eyes.

"Sherlock."

"Weird name," she said. "Mine's Rachel."

Sherlock realized that he'd never asked. "Rachel. I knew your favourite chocolate bar, but not that."

She smiled. "Chocolate is more important."

"Are you ready to see your parents?"

She shrugged.

* * *

_The car came, then. Drunk driver. Swerving off the road._

_Rachel is the closest, in the middle of its path._

_Sherlock jumped._

_It was biology that made the decision. Brain power does not matter in the split second. All he knew is that she would hurt if he didn't._

_The car won, and Sherlock fell. He thought he could her screaming. Then no more._

* * *

**A/N: No idea where this is going, but whump and hurt/comfort are definites.**

**Donate: give a review to a fanfiction author today.**


	2. Help Sherlock

It was the screaming that had John on his feet. High-pitched. Desperate. Young. The type of scream that leaves your body before you can stop it. John had had plenty of those before. John was moving towards it like a reflex, opening doors of the police station, tumbling down the steps like they weren't there, but then stopping. Stopping at the crossing of the street, when he saw the car twisted around the lamp post.

He nodded.

The nod of acceptance. The nod when he gathered himself together. John was a doctor when he started walking again.

The first person he saw was Rachel, on the floor, the scream far gone from her lips. Inaudible sobs instead. Through the tears, she was repeating one word over and over, but John couldn't make out what it was. There was a ring of people and metal. Unthinkingly, he grabbed Rachel's hand, murmuring words to her he himself couldn't hear.

John's mind teetered on the edge of a cliff, over the logical answer to who they were surrounding, but it didn't want to jump. It when the saw the black curls, and trickles of blood running down a sharp white face, the black coat flapped out like a shadow that he had no choice. He fell through the crowd, still dragging Rachel with him but numb to her presence.

"Sherlock?"

The crowd was pressing all round them, the jostling centering around one loud man in particular. John could hear a familiar voice shouting too. He looked up to see Lestrade restraining the loud man with handcuffs. The man had blood dripping down his face. The driver. The world seemed sluggish and slow. John's eyes slipped once again to Sherlock. Unfair how Sherlock had been damaged so much, and the driver could still shout.

Suddenly, he felt a warm, small pressure in his hand. He was still holding Rachel. She was completely unscathed, apart from that her eyes were wet. She was still repeating the same few words over and over.

"Sherlock," he realised she was saying. "Help Sherlock."

Yes, he thought. Yes, that's what I need to do. His heart was suddenly racing over how long he'd left it to assess Sherlock.

"Sherlock...C-can you hear me?"

John didn't even know why he asked; Sherlock was out cold. He pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck, aware that this was why doctors were not meant to treat family and loved ones. The brain you need is not accessible at times like these. Still, though, he tried - no pulse.

"Has someone phoned an ambulance?" John looked up at the blur of the crowd. "Christ, please tell me-"

"It's okay." A hand on his shoulder that seemed like Lestrade's. "On its way. Oi, everybody move back!"

Barely aware of the crowd's pressure alleviating, John lent over Sherlock and started compressions without thinking, hard on Sherlock's chest, to a rhythm that he was more used to than his own heartbeat. When he switched to rescue breaths on Sherlock's mouth, it was with a desperation that he'd never felt, as if he couldn't breathe too. He had no time, energy or breath to urge Sherlock on: _come on Sherlock. Please. Come on Sherlock. For me._

John didn't know how long he did this for; he just knew it was the only thing he could do. He repeated the same process until the paramedics gently gripped his shoulder, and moved him aside. His gabbled words somehow had the intended effect and he ended up in the ambulance - not sitting because he wanted to help, was trained to help and how could he not when his... How could he trust anyone else with this? How could he just sit there and watch? They were all around him, saying again and again _sit still, just let us do our __jobs__, you've done well but it's our turn now_...

He knew he'd be saying the same thing in their position, but even after he sat down, his hands flinched towards the equipment.

He didn't look at anyone else's face apart from Sherlock's.

They are already charging, shouting numbers and commands that for some reason he couldn't work out the meaning of, just that they were desperate He could only watch as Sherlock's whole body rise and fell at the shock of the paddle rather than his own voluntary movement which meant he could be dying.

For some reason it was as if he was in a dream, and Sherlock was not dying in front of him.

Then there was a sudden silence and a noise increase at once, and Sherlock's eyes were open, and he was shouting, trying to remove the ET tube from down his throat, and it was no longer a dream but as sharp as glass, and arms were all over Sherlock, and so were John's, until his were the only ones left, and Sherlock's eyes were on him and him only, and John's eyes were on Sherlock and Sherlock only and _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock _was all John could say.

"Stay with me now," said John. "Sherlock, stay with me now."

Gloved hands separated John and Sherlock physically, but their shared gaze did not break.

Sherlock was breathing too fast - but before he hadn't been breathing at all. The ecstasy John usually felt at this moment wasn't there, like his brain could only deal with one thing at a time. All he knew was that Sherlock was there. And that's all that mattered. And it was how it was meant to be.

* * *

**As promised, whump. **

**I thought it was best to end it there.**

**Reviews are better than food (except dairy milk).**


	3. Pain

The world comes back - not in a spillage of senses but, crisply, like a light turning on in a room. The first thing he knows is pain. It encompasses his body and, most importantly, his mind. Light is next. Too bright. Pain itself. Then noise.

Air is coarse on his lungs. He opens his mouth. His chest rises and falls. Something is placed over his mouth and nose; he imagines it's what a good kiss feels like. He can breathe again.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" someone says softly.

Touch on his body, but he can barely distinguish it from the pain. He tries to nod, but he doesn't think it will work - so he hugs the darkness as everyone but the soft voice talk about him, in words he doesn't understand. Lights flashing in his eyes. Fiercely, he squeezes them shut.

"Don't fall asleep."

As he slips under, the noise becomes more shrill, but fades, and the soft voice keeps repeating his name.

* * *

Aware again.

Pain again.

This time, indescribable.

Raging. He fights with his fists. It might help.

"Restrain him!"

A rough voice. No one he knows. He fights harder - from a primal fear of the unknown; evolution is asking him _how do you know that the voice is safe?_

"GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"

A softer voice, even though it's harsher words. Familiar. Strange hands withdrawn, and replaced with the ones that must belong to the voice, making his heart rate slow.

Lots of chatter, words slipping between people, too fast for Sherlock to catch.

Deep breaths, but the pain defied deep breaths. Pain - all he is, all he was. All he is going to be? All he can think about is pain, not deductions.

He claws at everything, hurts, groans.

Fire rips through.

"Morphine! Someone get me-"

A sound blocks out the rest of the sentence. Sherlock knows that it must be him screaming: it sounds like him, he's the one everyone is gathered around, the pain is _his_. Yet, he does not remember the scream leaving him, and nor can he feel it leaving him now, and yet the sound is still going.

"Sherlock! BREATHE!"

He is gripping something soft, living and pulsing. He tries to let go, but he can't because it keeps squeezing back. He wants to let go because he we will squeeze the life out of it. There is already enough life squeezing out of him.

"Dr. Watson, leave us to it-"

"Hurry up then! Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock leans forward, into his own lap. He is retching. There are hands on his head, gripping his hair, stroking his scalp. Murmurings. The tone, not the words, lulling him. A hand on his chest, holding him, and then guiding him back to softness when he is done. He momentarily sees the scatter over the sheets.

A stab in his arm...

A drug washing over him...

Leaving only the dull ache of defeated pain

"Okay, Sherlock... Get some rest. Sleep now."

He slips under, wanting nothing more than to be oblivious. For the first time in his life.

"Sleep now."

* * *

Life again. Sickening and ill. Hard. Rasping. Bright. He opens his eyes, a feat that is too hard to comprehend – how had he come to this? He squints. The light dims immediately. He can make out the blur of figures - one leaning over his bed, close to his face, grey and ghost-like. It could have been anyone, but Sherlock thinks he knew who it is.

Slowly John's face comes into focus: the wrinkles round his eyes, the crisp colour of his pupils, the bags underneath. The beginnings of stubble – two or three days' worth (Sherlock's brain is slower than normal and accuracy is suffering). The stain of coffee on his throat. The creased collar. The black jacket he always wears, a harsher look under this different light.

John smiles through a frown. _You don't fool me John_, he wants to say, but it comes out as "y...d..flllm."All he manages to say in an understandable way is "John"

The reward he gets was a squeeze of the hand. "That's right."

The shaky voice.

In any other situation, touch was a punishment, but Sherlock could think of nothing more rewarding than warmth and a reminder that someone else was there. Someone familiar. He had studied those hands, and now he could finally put those studies to practice: exactly how he had expected them to feel, but also so much more – in a way that he couldn't describe.

Still, something was missing.

"Sherlock, I need you to stay with me this time."

Well, he wasn't exactly going to move..

Again, his mouth wasn't obeying. _Be more literal_, is what he wanted to say, but what came out was "b...mrrr..lll."

Around him: men in white coats, and blue overalls, and equipment set up just for the job of keeping Sherlock's body alive (which was there just to keep his brain alive). The flashing of monitors. The splatter of shop-bought cards and grapes spread in no order around the room.

The beep of his heart monitor. The hushed noise of the rest of the hospital, just making it through the the thin walls of his room. The murmur of white-coat clipped voices, numbers and facts about Sherlock that Sherlock didn't understand but usually would.

The lack of pain.

The numbness.

The spaced-out feeling.

The only drugs Sherlock did not want.

"John."

"Sherlock?"

"No. No. No. D'nnt want."

John so close to him, like Sherlock's a child. He feels like one. "It's okay. Are you in pain? What don't you want?"

"These drugs."

"You need them Sherlock... The pain was..." John frowns. "Sherlock, do you know where you are?"

_Hospital._

"Hpptal"

John nods, seemingly taking that as an appropriate answer.

"Dr. Watson - I think we should..."

"R..." Sherlock begins. He doesn't know what word he is forming, but he knows it's important.

"Dr Watson..." says someone.

"No, Sherlock - what were you saying?" says John.

"R...Rache?"

"Rachel...Oh Sherlock."

But Sherlock is struggling now.

"She's fine. You saved her. At least that's what she says." A quick, empty smile. "Not sure I believe it but..." A quick, empty laugh.

The lights are dimming.

"You saved her..."

Sherlock is slipping into a place he prefers, painless and without memories.

"You saved her."

* * *

**Everyone's experienced if before: the arse of a computer suddenly going black on unsaved work.**

**Unfortunately, it did so on this chapter (and the next). So this chapter is 500 words too short because I simply cannot remember what I wrote - and the next is 1100 words too short, now having no words at all.**

**But thank you for your reviews! Continually make me happy.**


	4. Waiting

Sherlock was wheeled into surgery then. John was ushered into an empty cafe to sit over an empty cup of coffee that he drank too quickly, watching the deadened night that never seemed to end. The surgery was completed in a matter of hours and was successful in that it did what it was meant to do: it fixed the bones that were broken, two ribs and the radius of his left arm, and held them in bandages. It stopped the internal bleeding. It kept the patient alive.

When Sherlock was pushed out of surgery, though, he was a different man. Instead of clinging onto life with colour, like when his blue eyes had pierced through that bright red blood in the ambulance, he now looked like it had been sucked out of him.

He was white, like he had been drained of Sherlock.

John hasn't actually talked to Rachel yet, only on the phone. It's the beginning of the day after the accident now (John has been in the hospital overnight) and Rachel has been cosied up with Lestrade and her parents, discussing Sherlock's accusations of abuse, the reasons she ran away and the accident itself. John hasn't even seen Lestrade - though from Lestrade's constant stream of texts, John can guess where Lestrade really wants to be.

John sits in Sherlock's room now. Whereas before Sherlock was a blur of pain and the only question John could ask was _dead or alive?_, now the world is crisp and John can ask every question, every 's an endless cycle: John starts at his head, see the nature, severity and possible cause of each injury, and then imagines it, Sherlock jumping in the way of Rachel - did he really? -, the gasp which was never finished, metal against skin, instantly cutting it, arteries nicked, organs shaken, the brain switching off...

The hospital is white and featureless, so there is no distraction from Sherlock. Not that John could look away. For the first time he finds himself craving drugs, to nauseate his brain, and think of nothing else.

There is a knock on the door, but it opens without waiting for a reply. Mycroft, head hanging low as if he doesn't want to look, steps in almost like a child. His gaze moves to Sherlock like he doesn't even notice John (though, of course, he does).

"John," he says blankly, still staring at Sherlock. "Any news?"

John opens his mouth - but the process of speech he has known since childhood seems to fail at some broken junction in his upper chest. There are a few moments before he can say anything.

"Why are you even asking? You know anyway."

Mycroft stands up straighter, and plops his umbrella on the floor, head tipping sideways so he stares at Sherlock slightly like a lost puppy - rather than an intelligent observer (no doubt what he intended).

Like John, Mycroft takes a long time to form a reply.

"You're a doctor, John."

"Well," says John. "I see your powers of observation haven't been ruined by all this-"

"No," says Mycroft quickly, finally meeting his eye. "You're a doctor. What's your prognosis?"

"You've heard Dr. Nolan's. This is his case."

"I want to know yours."

"Very passive of you, Mycroft. Normally, you would have demanded Sherlock be to his own hospital by now, studied endless CCTV footage in case...somehow...this was a set-up by a criminal. Where is the Mycroft that I know, hm?"

John's gaze moves back to Sherlock. The black hair is a sticky mess, the tubes of his nasal cannula disappear within it and his eyes are closed, skin is so pale and thin it's as if the pillow is visible through it. The white of him melts into the white of it. The situation as a whole makes John want to shout. The fact that Mycroft is failing his role as all-powerful makes John want to shout. The fact that Sherlock is lying there - when it could have been anyone else, when the drunk driver could have had one less beer, when Rachel could have not run away...

Mycroft opens and closes his mouth, before staring at the point of his umbrella resting on the floor. He spins it slightly, fiddling like Sherlock used to. Mycroft rarely fiddles.

"I just want...to know if there's a second opinion from the one we've been given."

"That Sherlock might have brain damage?"

"Yes."

"There is no second opinion," says John. Mycroft stands, as if waiting for more. "It's the only opinion that makes sense."

Both their gazes drift to Sherlock, seeing exactly the same thing, but observing something completely different. Different perceptions of the same reality. Different wants and desires. The two people closest to Sherlock, and their visions cannot align.

"We'll just have to wait," says John.

"I'm no good at that," says Mycroft, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Finally, Lestrade arrives. "Jesus, shall I turn the light on?"

John isn't sure of the time, but the light in the window is dim so it's either dusk or dawn. It doesn't seem worth bringing his watch up to his face to check. All that matters is that he can tell where Sherlock is - and whether he's awake or not.

"Probably a good idea."

Sarcastic, thinks John. He's proud at the attempt at humour, though his listless voice doesn't live up to his words. The light is painful, like John expected, but he blinks up at Lestrade anyway who Sherlock's unmoving form from sight.

"We've caught the drunk driver."

"Oh."

"He was...young," says Lestrade, staring at Sherlock, still not sitting down. "Only nineteen. His court case is coming up. Sentence depends on how Sherlock is doing, the calculated damage to property. You know how it is..." No, John doesn't. "I can't believe this has happened...What do you think is going to happen to him? I know what the doctors think but... You know_ him._ You know his brain. It's different."

John looks up at Lestrade then, who is running his hand nervously through his hair.

"Knowing Sherlock doesn't help this," says John. "His body is like anyone else's. It can break down, and his brain can't solve that. Especially if it's his brain..."

John can't continue. There's a hand on his shoulder then, squeezing, an anchor so John's emotions don't float away and leave him support. Neither John nor Sherlock can afford that. A few moments later, John's breathing steadies and Lestrade knows he has permission to remove his hand.

"Especially," says John, staring up at Lestrade, determined to finish his sentence, breathing under control now, "if it's his brain that's breaking down."

There are a few moments of staring before Lestrade flicks an empty smile in his direction. Lestrade takes the seat next to John - so John can, once again, see Sherlock and, once again, cannot bring himself to look away.

John tries distract himself by talking. "Don't you have a case or something?"

Is he scared that if he looks away, Sherlock will deteriorate?

"No I don't actually. We interviewed Rachel though..."

And John won't be there to stop it happening?

"And?"

And what does he think he'd really be able to do?

"Interviewed the parents, interviewed her, interviewed their neighbours, interviewed her school... we searched the house. We did everything, mate. They seem like a normal, happy family."

John looks at Lestrade then. "But... He seemed so sure."

"I know...You look like shit, John."

"You do too."

"Well, you look like shit that hasn't slept. Get some rest, yeah? And I'll take over sitting here pointlessly, watching over him."

"No... I slept earlier."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows in blatant disbelief.

"Well, I'll be here all night just in case you want to drop off."

So that's what time it was. Dusk. It was a day and a half since the incident then.

"Everyone get it wrong sometimes, even Sherlock... John, seriously. Get some sleep."

"I..." John bites his lip. "I don't want to look away from him."

"I'll wake you up if anything happens." John finally looks at Lestrade, as if to assess his honesty. "Anything at all. I promise."

John closes his eyes before he can even murmur an acceptance.

* * *

The morning is bright on his eyelids. He hopes it's a dream, and he can return to sleep. No. He hopes everything's a dream, and he can return to his life before: that untouchable world where Sherlock was indestructible and John could barely keep up.

"Mate? You awake?"

There is no choice now. John opens his eyes.

"You slept ten for hours," says Lestrade. "Almost midday now... You obviously needed it."

John's gaze falls on Sherlock. There had been a moment of hope - where, through no choice of John's own, it had rushed round his body, hot as blood. That moment hurt to think about now, upon seeing Sherlock's cool, still face.

"You been here the whole time?" John's voice is much more cracked than he intended. It sounds like it hurts to speak. It does hurt to speak. Lestrade is looking at him funny, concerned. John clears his throat, and when he continues is glad to hear that his voice sounds normal. "Thanks."

John blinks as his body uncurls from its uncomfortable position, pain making itself known and his skin ironing itself out.

"I've had plenty to think about, though," says Lestrade, taking his seat once again. "Like... what if Sherlock was right about Rachel? The man wass barely ever wrong."

The man _was _barely ever wrong. Lestrade glances sideways at John. "Sorry," he grunts.

John's gaze settles again on Sherlock. The man who _is_ still there. Physically. It is Sherlock.

John just wants him to get up and prove it. Move around, rip out his tubes, raise his eyebrows at John and Lestrade and announce "of course I was right about Rachel!" before rattling off a list of facts, that bemuse at first but slowly piece together the story for Lestrade and John and Sherlock's gaze would be flicking away from John but always returning to him like he's home, a safe base, somewhere to search for the nod of pride or the frown of confusion because genius needs its audience and the audience Sherlock has chosen is John.

How can Sherlock be in a room but not contributing to a case?

"You should get some sleep, " says John, suddenly wanting to be alone. "Go home. I feel refreshed now. You, however...You'll need to get to work soon anyway." Lestrade hesitates. "I asked Mrs. Hudson to come soon," says John quickly "so I won't be alone."

"Okay then... but you make sure she comes. Call if you need me."

Lestrade gets up, and then stops at the door, turns around and stares back at John.

"He hurt himself doing an amazing thing, and I don't think any of us can say we expected it. If he doesn't get through this the...same, it was for something amazing...so..."

John cannot settle his gaze on Lestrade as the words leave the man's mouth, but of his periphery, he can see Lestrade's fists clench and unclench, and looking away doesn't stop him hearing the slight tremor in Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock is. He was..." The sound of an unnaturally deep breathing being drawn. "Sherlock was and, hopefully, will continue to be a good man... A _great_ man."

"Thanks, Greg," John murmurs.

He doesn't look back at Lestrade's expression after he says that, just hears a couple of moments of soft breathing before the door closes.

* * *

"I keep getting these odd texts."

John looks up. It's late afternoon. Mrs. Hudson is standing at the door, wearing a deep pink jacket, bags hanging off every limb - apart from one hand which is holding a mobile phone. She smells of food. John had forgotten food existed. For the past few hours, he'd been staring at Sherlock dejectedly. Nurses had occasionally wondered in to replaced the various IV bags surrounding Sherlock or to update his chart. Update his chart on what John already knew, what everyone already knew: no change.

Lestrade must have asked her to come, not believing John's lie that he had asked her to or just to make sure. Regardless, here she was. And this was Mrs. Hudson - so she wasn't going away any time soon. John knew she would have been hovering round the phone waiting for her invitation, desperate - but drawing any compassion or thought for anyone but himself and Sherlock was like being asked to breathe purely carbon dioxide. It hurt.

"What texts?" asks John, glad she had provided a conversation that he didn't have to think about the reply to.

Mrs. Hudson unloads her many bags into a large heap next to John's chair. An apple rolls out of one, and stops close to John's feet. Mrs. Hudson doesn't notice, already being at Sherlock's side, one shaking hand reaching out to touch Sherlock's brow, lingering barely for a second but long enough for John to notice, before it starts to stroke, and Mrs. Hudson shaking her head, just like she used to when she saw the messy kitchen or after Sherlock had said something inappropriate.

"Oh," she murmurs. "Sherlock."

This wasn't as fixable as one of Sherlock's loud experiments though - and Mrs. Hudson's lips press together as a tear leaves her right eye and drops onto the white sheet over Sherlock's chest. Mrs. Hudson rubs it with her thumb, gently and John knows it's an excuse to stroke Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson tries to comfort, even when the person cannot hear her.

"He looks so white there," she says, withdrawing her arms, just staring, and stepping back as if out of respect, as if Sherlock's still form is something too sacred to be touched. "Why does he have to have all those tubes on him? Oh," she hugs her arms round herself, "it's awful".

John finds himself standing up, and his arms sliding round Mrs. Hudson's back, round her shaking shoulders and encasing her, squeezing her thin arms. She jumps at first, but exhales after and relaxes into it, as if she has just plunged into a swirling hot tub and is now breathing in the fumes, muscles loosening.

"My boys," she whispers, barely loud enough for John to catch. "My _boy_."

* * *

There's a knock on the door, after how long neither of them know, and John has unwraps his arms to be back on his chair before Mrs. Hudson can react. Dr. Nolan steps into the room, the doctor that's been on Sherlock's case from the beginning, glances between them and says "um".

"She can stay," says John immediately, and then reels off an introduction.

Dr. Nolan nods. He's middle-aged, greying hair whispy round the edges, but with sharp eyes and a quick walk. He grabs a chair from the side of the room, then Sherlock's chart from the end of the bed and sits opposite John, gesturing Mrs. Hudson to sit so he can face them both. He's a few metres back from them - enough space to be unobtrusive but close enough to build trust. There is no trust, though, when John knows that this is simply his medical training to make patients feel at ease - and that really the doctor is out of his depth emotionally and as unknowing of the future as they are, however good a doctor he is. All any of them can do, John knows, is wait.

"Mr. Holmes was without oxygen for around five minutes. This is a crucial time - a border if you like, after which permanent anoxic brain injury can occur. We can't know until he wakes up what the extent of damage is or if there is any." The doctor smiles apologetically at John. "I know you know this, having been told it at medical school and countlessly in the past few days, but..."

"Doing your job, I know."

"The longer he stays in a coma, the greater the risk of damage. Given the amount of time without oxygen and the amount of time he's been comatose..." Dr. Nolan's voice is becoming gentler, "it's unlikely Mr Holmes will come out of this with complete neurological function. This could mean anything from mild visual problems to short term memory loss. That is if he wakes up at all. If there is brain damage, we will of course provide the support you and Mr. Holmes need. Long-term and short-term."

John knew all this, but hearing it from someone else, from someone in the white coat, from someone not the edge of breaking down and never being able to put himself back together, confirms that this it was not paranoia but his medical degree.

"H-he looks trustworthy," says Mrs. Hudson as he leaves.

"Hm."

"Is he though?" She is shaking now, despite her norm of conversation, but John cannot bring himself to put his arms round her again. "You knew_ him_...You know his brain... It's different, isn't it? It's clever! It might be able to stitch itself up...It might..."

"Sorry."

"You're a doctor, can't you give a - give a- second opinion?"

John cannot bring himself to speak again, so just shakes his head. The third person to ask him that. His hand slips numbly into hers, but he can feel no warmth leaving it. How can the discomforted comfort the discomforted?

Suddenly, there is a harsh beep. They both jump violently, brains slow in working out the source, looking around the room. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson pats her pocket and pulls a mobile phone out. She squints at the screen, tears still shining on her face.

"Oh, I've got another one," she says. "Mycroft keeps sending me texts."

"What does it say?" says John, because that's what you're meant to ask, not because he particularly cares. "I doubt it's actually him sending them anyway."

They need conversation or speech would dissolve, and they would sit in silence with nothing to stare at, to think of, but Sherlock - neither able to speak. They need to be reminded how to busy themselves. Especially John, who hasn't left the hospital yet.

"No, it is," says Mrs. Hudson. "He's signed it 'Mycroft'".

Yes, because only he can spell 'Mycroft', thought John.

"He wants to know how Sherlock is."

Or he's asked his minions to find out. Doesn't want to know enough to visit the hospital more than once. Or actually contact John directly.

"Of course," says John, because that what he feels he should say.

"He's being quite polite," says Mrs. Hudson, screwing her face up. "Nothing like Sher..."

She trails off, and both their gazes land on Sherlock.

"He's never polite, though," says Mrs. Hudson suddenly.

"Hm?"

"Mycroft, he was always very rude. Remember the stare Sherlock gave him once when he was rude to me?"

John smiles despite himself, and they both stare at each other, blurry-eyed.

"Vividly," says John. "Actually... he was weirdly nice when he came to visit, to think of it..." says John, curiousity piqued now, a feeling he'd almost forgotten, thought had been trudged by grief and worry. John can see why Sherlock thought curiosity can be a distraction. "Well not nice. But he didn't kidnap me or anything."

"Look at us, solving our own puzzle."

"Yes," says John. "Just look at us." He smirks. "Well...failing to solve a puzzle."

Mrs. Hudson lets out a high-pitched giggle.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson's voice is soft, relaxing, not intrusive enough for John to pick out any words. It reminds him of the sheets of rain he used to listen to as a child as he tried to sleep, not wanting to because it seemed even more relaxing being awake. The room is dark, and John is drifiting off in his chair, his stomach full from the boxes of homemade food Mrs. Hudson had forced down him, complete with cake, smelling of Mrs. Hudson's flowery, feminine soap that she lent him for the shower, feeling warm in his favourite jumper she took out of his cupboard...

Mrs. Hudson by Sherlock's side, by a stack of newspapers she brought from Baker Street, reading all the stories Sherlock would find interesting: the unsolved cases, the interviews with flummoxed police, the new serial killer rampaging his way through London...

And still, Sherlock doesn't stir.

* * *

When John wakes up, he can see Mrs. Hudson has been crying. She's curled up on her chair and, a ball of tissues in her hands, newspapers fallen to the floor. Her breaths are deep and John knows she is asleep. It's pitch black now, but John has no idea of the time.

The nurse comes in some time later, a triangle of light at the door. John is still wide awake, and he smiles grimly at her.

"Why haven't we been sent home yet?" he asks. "Way out of visiting hours. Or is that what you're about to do - kick us out?"

She is busying herself with the IV. "Orders from above," she says plainly.

The door closes and the nurse is gone. Minutes later there are loud noises at the door. The same nurse is there, framed by three others and two large objects. The objects are wheeled in.

"Beds," supplies the nurse, as they're pushed to the sides of the small room. "Ready made."

"What?"

The nurse shrugs. "_Orders from above._"

It seems like she's not happy with their preferential treatment, sighing loudly as she and the other nurses leave, no doubt thinking they're rich and have paid for extra supplies. John gently shakes Mrs. Hudson, but she doesn't respond. He picks her up, like he would a child, and carries her to the nearest bed. He kicks something as he walks. The apple she dropped earlier.

John eats the apple, thinking about the new, quietly polite Mycroft and a Mrs. Hudson that, at first, he had dared to reject.


	5. Sunset

Mrs. Hudson has returned to Baker Street, to continue with her life, just for a short while. John doesn't know how to continue his own life - cannot, in fact. Sherlock was such a key element to it.

Lestrade rings after she leave, asks John to get some proper sleep, come home, get refreshed. To leave Sherlock.

John tries to explain to Lestrade that he _can't_, just can't. Like he can't run 100m in 10 seconds.

Or fly.

Losing Sherlock is like losing a habit. A space he can't fill. Like the phantom a heavy rucksack leaves on your shoulder days after wearing it, but for the rest of your life.

There_ is_ hope, but right now Sherlock is lying still. The chances of Sherlock coming back as himself... coming back at all... are slipping...

The moments in the ambulance and the hospital when Sherlock was briefly conscious keep flashing red and blue in John's mind, more precious than John could have ever known at the time... Sherlock's eyes locked on John's...

John deflates, head collapsing his arms, like he is in a coma too. Yet still, he can't take his eyes off Sherlock. Even when they close...

John dreams of flying. Flying above the hospital, but Sherlock is clinging onto his leg and when John tries to shake him off, Sherlock's eyes crinkle, tears leak from him and the blue of his eyes fade into the blue of the sky until Sherlock is gone.

John wakes up.

Arm outstretched.

* * *

Sherlock is cold.

Something in him is shivering, but he can't feel his body moving.

Maybe it's his heart.

One moment, he's in a lab, surrounded by bottles, chemical equations floating, the elements of life around him but unreachable...

The next moment, the world is blurred like Sherlock is underwater, looking up - but when he tries to break through the surface, he hits a sheet of ice.

Through the ice, he see a grey splodge.

It pulsates like it should be more.

It's where the sunlight is, where he knows he will be warm again, where he knows he needs to go - though he doesn't know why.

Sherlock thinks he might be dreaming, but he cannot bear the cold anymore.

He tries to reach out for the grey splodge.

Arm outstretched.

* * *

A sound leaves John's throat.

Primal. Innate. Involuntary.

From the deepest of emotions, from the spark of a brain that hasn't had time to think, from something we cannot pinpoint when it courses through our veins at its loudest...

John is on his feet, hands tumbling onto his friend's bed as shaky and unthinking as his ape's ancestors, fingers all over his friend's hair, onto his friend's hand, to the tip of his Sherlock's's finger...

"Sherlock. Did your finger just move?"

John's hand slams itself on the call button.

Breathing harshly but barely aware of it, John stares at Sherlock, eyes flicking everywhere, searching for any more movement. Apart from the faint pulse under pale skin at Sherlock's throat, the same on Sherlock's wrist and the rise and fall of Sherlock's lungs from the ventilator...

The movements of forced life.

Movements that would disappear if the machines were switched off.

Nothing more.

* * *

The dark smudge almost forms edges this time, moving its familiar shape in a familiar way: towards Sherlock. Only an outline though, like a stencil drawing. The colours, the contents, the whole... is what Sherlock's craving.

Sherlock tries to reach out again. Towards the dark splodge. Maybe he can make it lighter...

And breaks through the ice in a swift movement, curiosity providing energy to do so, though scientifically impossible. It's light and warm, but painful. He feels closer to truth - which is better than lies, however much it hurts.

The world is clear. So clear, it hurts. Hands on Sherlock, his body being moved on something soft beneath him. He didn't know there was _a beneath him_.

Voices.

Sherlock knows what he's hearing, but can't understand their words or if they're are a threat.

One of them sounds familiar though, his only companion since he's woken up. Apart from his heartbeat. He wants to hear more of it.

_Notice me_, Sherlock thinks.

_Notice me_.

Then Sherlock thinks, _I am thinking_.

* * *

"His finger... I swear."

The nurse's hands move over Sherlock, rest on his pulse, his forehead, pokes to elicit pain and repeats Sherlock's name loudly. John joins in, louder and louder. He grabs Sherlock's shoulders and shakes in a sudden surge of desperation.

Sherlock's muscles clench beneath his hands. Clench. The doctor is paged.

Sherlock is somewhere in there. The nurse rubs her arms. Dr. Nolan watches.

"Can you hear me, Sherlock?" John is as close as he can get, changing the tones of his words, thinking that he might just be in the wrong frequency for his friend to hear_._ "Please, Sherlock."

John wraps his hand round his friend's, and feels the clammy palms, the long, nimble fingers...

So familiar.

John squeezes.

"Just let me know you're there."

* * *

_Please. Sherlock._

The voice sounds like its desperate. Up and down. Like it's hurting.

Sherlock wants to help, answer yes, he can hear them, their voice is familiar, the first he's understood since the darkness and _who are they_?

A jolt goes up Sherlock's arm, as something familiar wraps itself round his hand and Sherlock knows its attached to that familiar voice.

Small, soft fingers on his...

So familiar.

Sherlock squeezes.

_Just let me know you're there._

Sherlock groans, just to hear something other than his pain. To reply to the voice, see if it speaks again. To let it know he's there.

* * *

First, Sherlock's warm fingers en-wrap his own, itching to get closer to John from wherever he is.

And then, in the same moment, a noise from Sherlock, soft enough to be breath.

John is a calibrated machine when it comes to Sherlock and recognizes the movements for what they are: the faint twitches of a hand remembering how to feel, the faint stirrings of a voice beginning again, Sherlock waking up.

Like Sherlock, John notices the details.

"That's it, Sherlock."

John can barely speak without his voice shaking.

"For me."

* * *

_For me._

The world is blurred through half-shut eyes. But he can see the blur grey splodge. Sherlock stares until it focuses into someone familiar.

And then he understands.

No wonder he's been so reaching so hard.

Sherlock stretches his eye further open...

A feat harder than expected.

_For John._

* * *

Faint flutterings, like a baby's eyes.

Unsure and learning. Eyelids barely able to hold themselves up.

But trying.

And succeeding.

A jolt of blue that John thought he'd never see again.

* * *

Sherlock knows he's in a hospital bed, with something around his neck.

"Do you know your name?"

Of course he knows his name.

"Sherlock," he says.

But it comes out in a child's voice and that confuses him even more.

* * *

Sherlock's voice is barely understandable, high-pitched and raw, like a soft scream, but John hears the 'S' and the click of the 'K' and that's all that really matters. Even if the words are barely distinguishable from Sherlock's hiss of breath, Sherlock is Sherlock again.

"And your surname?" Dr. Nolan asks.

But now Sherlock's lips are drooping from a smile to straight, the grip of his hand is relaxing and his eyelids are falling...

"Sherlock? John leans closer. "Sherlock? Stay with me. Sherlock, your surname...Sherlock..."

* * *

_Sherlock, your surname. _

Sherlock can only think of houses, and he's not sure why. Baker Street. Home.

A tiny little man sleeping in the eye-sockets of a skull, spine curved to their shape, cane between his legs, medical kit hanging from his right arm with a smile just for Sherlock.

The real John is going now, and Sherlock doesn't know where, fading into a grey splodge again. The darkness comes, fingers closing round its edges. And his repeated name, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock" fades into the distance like a train he cannot catch up with.

* * *

Sherlock. Gone. As quickly and as uncertainly as he came. John feels all energy leave his body, as if Sherlock's consciousnesses had sucked him in as well. He falls back onto the chair.

_How_? John asks. Dr. Nolan explains that the crucial thing is that Sherlock's alive, that confusion is to be expected, that even if the brain damage is permanent Sherlock will be able to return to a life of relative normality - and John's numb lips won't point out that Sherlock would not want to, could not, live with relative normality, ever, so Dr. Nolan just carries on speaking, until he leaves John for other patients, other stories and never really addresses John's unanswerable question: _how? _

How can Sherlock return to the world, with a gaze full of John and a smile full of Sherlock, only to slip away again minutes later? How might that the last time that that body, that brain will be Sherlock Holmes? How can Sherlock not know his own surname?

* * *

The world fades in and out...

Until all Sherlock knows is his heart beat.

And, then, nothing to grip onto.

* * *

How might that be goodbye? Strong and glowing, like a sunset - before slipping into darkness.

And how is John meant to continue, if so?

* * *

Not even the familiar voice, the grey splodge, not even John. Strong and glowing, like a sunset - before slipping into darkness.

Less than nothing. Just the _lack of_. And he doesn't understand...

* * *

_How?_

* * *

How?

* * *

**A/N. Thank you! Really appreciate the feedback so far. **

**Any characters you want to see more of?**


	6. Rare Species

"Sher...Sherlock? You there?"

Indiscriminate sounds. Tension round the mouth. Sherlock Holmes, screwing his fists up against some invisible force. And then...nothing, just his hand uncurling as the life is let out of them again.

So, what exactly would John lose if he lost a Sherlock? He enjoyed life before Sherlock.

That, though, was the problem: he no longer measured his life in years, or stepping stones like career changes; he measured his life in Before Sherlock or After Sherlock.

* * *

Lestrade sits opposite Rachel Miller, parentless - again.

"Did my officers not stop you walking in here?"

"I'm small," Rachel says by way of explanation. "And I knew I wouldn't be able to see you just by asking."

Lestrade glances through his office blinds, into the reception. The two officers there are chatting over coffee, completely oblivious that a small child slinked past them and into their superior's office.

"So you...decided to force your way?"

"Yeah."

Rachel is swamped in the chair she's in, her brown hair almost lost in the oak and the top of her head only reaching three quarters of the way up the back of it.

"I've seen more of you recently, Rachel, than most of my force in the last few days."

Lestrade decides not to mention the first time, but can't remembering it: stumbling out the police station into too bright light which dragged out details he didn't want to see…

A small crowd of people - the inseparable mass that forms at the wrong times, never helping, just pushing and shoving; metal wrapped around metal, squashed so it's barely distinguishable as a car, just a pile of broken bits telling of a collision that could have been deadly; a girl, small and fragile, familiar like a forgotten dream, and he realised he couldn't remember her name, just that he asked someone to babysit her.

And that someone, blood-soaked, in front of him.

Best friend, crouching over, with dead eyes...

Lestrade fell through the crowd, shouting long-learned orders without realizing the words actually leaving his mouth – only to, failing to think of anything else to do, put his hand on John's shoulder.

"First I interview you and your parents," continues Lestrade to Rachel," send you away that satisfied that everything's okay... and then you turn up again. On your own._ Is_ everything okay?"

The girl shakes her head solemnly, staring at the ground. "No."

"What? What is it?"

Lestrade leans forward at his desk, hands gripping the edge as Rachel's gaze meets his.

"I wanna see Sherlock."

Lestrade lets out an audible sigh. He loosens his grip on his desk and virtually collapses back into his chair.

"_Why_ do you like Sherlock so much? Then again, I suppose he is quite childish."

"Yeah, at first I didn't think he was a real adult," says Rachel, even though Lestrade intended the second sentence as afterthought to himself. "Is he a real adult?"

Lestrade smiles slightly. "That is still up for debate."

"He's good at games too."

When he sent Sherlock off with Rachel, he expected Rachel to come back sulking, hating the man. Not that he ever doubted Sherlock's competence in making sure she didn't run off - bonding, though, was a different matter.

"Um...Well," says Lestrade. "I'll phone ahead. Maybe tomorrow. But where are your parents?"

"Home."

"Rachel, is everything...okay at home?"

* * *

Molly rings. John couldn't say when. To measure time, you need a change but in the stark white hospital room there was no ticking of a clock, John's watch was broken and the closed blinds showed no change in sunlight. John stayed in the same position, as aware of time as a statue. John did know, though, that it was the fourth day he had woken up without Sherlock doing so too.

So he continues to wait for a change, sitting by Sherlock's bed like he's forgotten how to live the rest of his life.

The phone buzzes in his pocket and it takes a moment to remember what that means - then his hand closes around it, his finger presses a button and he holds it to his ear. Like a reflex.

"Hello?"

"Er...hi...John?"

It is such a Molly-like start to the conversation. Hesitant, like she isn't sure she should be having it.

"Molly." When he says her name, it's a relief. "Oh, god. Molly, hi."

Hearing her voice is a time capsule, buried and perfectly preserved, to the first time he met Sherlock at St. Bart's.

"Sorry...um, is this is a bad time?"

"No, no it's um..."

John finds himself completely unable to think of a word. Molly coming could be bad, very bad. Her delicacy, her emotions... Especially when it comes to Sherlock... But, all the same, her voice is comforting him. A feeling that John has never cherished so much as now.

"...it's fine."

There's a pause, like Molly can't quite believe John's given her permission to carry on.

"I was just wondering," she says, "just checking, really. On you...and Sherlock... I was just worried. Am worried."

The more Molly got worked-up, the more at ease John felt. The guilt would come later but, for now, Molly's awkwardness lightened...everything.

"Of course. Well, _I'm _fine, but he...It's not good..."

_A bit not good_, John almost says.

"But Sherlock _cares _about you," says John, using the present tense deliberately and, even though it slips on his tongue, it feels right. "And you have every right to know. To see him."

As he says it, John realizes that he's not lying, that he really does want to talk to another human being. Molly, specifically.

John can hear Molly moving her lips silently, trying to find the appropriate words, to ask for a visit. Even though he'd already essentially invited her. Molly Hooper, scared of gatecrashing despite being invited, wanting to visit Sherlock Holmes, who'll gatecrash anything.

"So, please," qualifies John. "Please visit."

Compared to Lestrade's seriousness, his grey beard deepening smudges under the eyes, his shirking of work duties to visit and care about Sherlock, his long looks…. Compared to Mrs. Hudson, smiling through tears she didn't even try to conceal, useless remedies (newspapers, food, Sherlock's skull) in too many bags, curling up on a chair and hugging herself when John could hug her no more…Compared to Mycroft, barely present, analysing everything from afar but never letting his bubble burst and the real world to touch him….

Compared to all that, Molly's reaction seemed the only appropriate one. For everyone else, the unquestioned questions, the etiquette everyone edged around, the fact that Sherlock might never be the same again was always there, however casual the inhabitants of his hospital room pretended to be or however trivial the conversation got. Molly accidentally avoided the rules, trod all over them in fact and then apologized profusely.

Compared to Sherlock.

White. Still. Never blushing.

In an insane part of John's mind which John can't help but listen to, have a small hope it is right, John can't imagine Sherlock staying white and still in front of a blabbering Molly. He just_ has_ to move. Molly brought out the most Sherlock Sherlock there was. The one that would tease ("don't speak, Molly. Not your area"), the one that would abuse ("Molly, your lunch break doesn't exist today") and the one who would watch every detail, change and emotion that would flit across her face, and care, in the Sherlock way of caring: to watch, learn and store. And, occasionally, act ("Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper").

If there was one person that Sherlock needed right now, it was Molly.

And if Sherlock needed her, so did John.

Molly is there within ten minutes - so John didn't have to have the Holmes' brothers deduction skills to know she'd been hanging around outside the hospital before she phoned. Sherlock is in University College Hospital, not St. Bart's; travel time should take twenty minutes.

Molly bustles through the door at the same time as the nurse, so she takes up even more space, with even more breaths and apologies, before sitting down. There is something child-like about Molly. That John wants to cling onto, revel in, like nostalgia. The whole room feels sunnier to John.

The nurse has a single flower in her hand, which she puts in a vase by Sherlock's bed, bright pink near his white skin. It seems to just underline the life Sherlock doesn't have.

"Stay as long as you want," says the nurse to Molly before leaving.

Molly smiles awkwardly, before her gaze (which has been everywhere else in the room) lands on Sherlock.

"Hey, John. I brought some..."

She indicates a bag, which she then drops to the floor as her eyes take Sherlock in.

"My God," she says quietly. "I didn't expect...this. This bad. Sorry," she says. "It just I..."

Her knees look like they've collapsed underneath her when she falls back onto the chair.

"Molly?"

John moves round the room, and kneels in front of her chair and places his hands on her shoulders, so he's between her and Sherlock's bed. He waits for her to finish crying. It's so silent. Even her tears fall almost invisibly. She takes deep breaths, and looks up at the ceiling, so her eyes shine - but tears stay unfallen.

"S-sorry."

"No, no. Don't apologize. It's only natural."

She smiles, but it's like a grimace.

"I don't know why I've... My emotions have kind of been everywhere since I heard from Lestrade. I just keep thinking that I should have somehow...Prevented it. I'm a bit protective of him... I know it's illogical, but I can't help it."

She giggles, but John knows it's to make the conversation easier for him - not because it's suddenly any easier for her.

John thinks of Mycroft, and his sudden disappearance. What invisible chess game is he playing? And against what opponent? There is no way he is sitting idle. Getting John a bed in the hospital room, and making every hour a visiting hour, cannot be the extent of his actions.

"I think he does that to everyone," says John. "Brings out the protective streak. Probably because he's such a child."

"Yeah, exactly! And you're a nice man, John. Thank you. I feel we've missed out on each other... Like Sherlock was an obstacle... No, not an obstacle...no that's not true..."

"You tend to forget about everyone else when Sherlock's around. I understand."

"Well yeah." She smiles. "And that's not an insult to him obviously. He just demands quite a lot of attention!"

"Demands it, sulks until he gets it, screams like a toddler for it..."

"Or sometimes just quietly sits, and gets attention anyway."

John looks at Molly for a few seconds before speaking. "Yeah. The opposite to you, really."

"I don't mind."

John slowly tucks one of her loose strands of hair behind her ear. She stays very still. Then his whole being jumps-

"Molly Hooper."

Molly and John look at one another, wondering it was either of them that spoke but the voice, the contents of the speech, are too distinctive to be anyone else...

Molly looks up; John turns around...

Sherlock has his eyes half open, staring back.

"You're like a beautiful piece of artwork, Molly - but you never completely dry, so you get smudged far too easily. Like now. Over me. You shouldn't."

John opens his mouth to speak, but words don't seem to follow. John can barely dare to hope. Sherlock's eyes are open, the best news he's had in the four days spent at the hospital, but how could he cling onto that given his medical knowledge, given the last disappointment? How can he know Sherlock won't just slip away again?

If there is only a split second though, John is determined to fill it. He rushes forward, too slowly - for everything involved in reaching Sherlock is too slow... John couldn't say where Molly was if he tried. He just puts his weight into the chair next to Sherlock's bed, and stares at Sherlock's moving mouth, eyes, being. Brain. Working.

Suddenly, Sherlock looks up at the ceiling.

"This isn't fair!" His voice fills the room, like it hasn't done in so long. "I'm _high_! _High_, the one time I don't want to be..."

John grabs Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock stares at his hands for a few moments, smile twitching, ready to break free.

"John..."

"Sherlock."

"I remember my surname. And I remember you. And I remember Molly Hooper. And I remember my brother. And I remember that," Sherlock takes a large breath, "there are only two known examples of the flower _Middlemist camellia _in the world - so _why_ is a specimen sitting at my bedside?"

But neither Sherlock nor John look at the bedside table.

The smile that had been threatening to do so fills Sherlock's whole face as he meets John's gaze.

* * *

**A/N:Well that has been a while... I am so sorry! I've written up to chapter 8 though and have ideas until the end of the fic - so it should be much quicker from now on.**

**Well introducing molly was on a whim. I'm tempted to include more of her - or would you prefer some other character?**

**I'm thinking about Donovan/Anderson at some point (can't have one without the other).**

**I go to University College London and couldn't resist putting the hospital in there... Not that I'm particularly enjoying UCL at the moment, with all the exams. I'm sure a lot of you are in a similar situation (exam season, ew).**

**Hope you're all well!**

**P.S. Has anyone been watching The Politician's Husband? I loved it. It made me want to write a Ten fic.**


	7. Rollercoaster Returns

Sherlock's lying there, looking almost serene like he has just woken up from a refreshing sleep rather than four days in a coma, eyes on John.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You're…"

"I'm only an _almost_ mind reader John. You'll need to finish your sentence."

"You're…"John's breath leaves him in a laugh, a breezy gasping laugh that would be more appropriate at a comedy show. Tears shimmer at the corner of his eyes. He puts his head in his hands. "You're back."

It as if John, too, has just woken up from consciousness. The world is suddenly crisp and bright, memories of crimes and running and Sherlock's flapping black coat, his quick eyes, the way his fingers steeple together, before he bounds around the room like a bunny only to collapse on the sofa like a moody teenager, the way he surprises John again and again, the way John feels proud to know him, feels proud to be the one Sherlock has chosen as his best friend, feels disbelief at his luck...And utter annoyance at his bad luck when Sherlock leaves John to stumble in his wake, when Sherlock harms himself, arguing with danger for the rush and then leaving John to seethe at the consequences, when Sherlock's chemicals stain the flat in both smell and sight - which, like blood on guilty hands, never seems to rub away however much scrubbing is done.

"Jesus, Sherlock… I thought you weren't going to… Wake up."

Sherlock blinks a few times. He seems tired, like an old man at the end of life, or a baby at the beginning. The is the easiest thing to stare at from his position, flat on his back, and eventually his gaze settles there.

"I didn't think so either."

John reaches blindly for the call button.

"No. John," says Sherlock, mouth creasing into a smile. "Not now."

John's hand hovers as if Sherlock's smile is a physical barrier. Smiles always seem wider on Sherlock. Harder to dodge. John retracts his hand. It's like he's not talking to Sherlock Holmes, but some awful, shoddy copy of him. Even Sherlock's mannerisms are different - since when has Sherlock's mouth held that tension?

Pain, John realises.

"Are you okay?" says John quietly. "Your vitals are good but… It's been rough."

"I still have nerve-endings John. I can feel that."

"Do you want some more morphine? I can up the dose-"

"Morphine equals grogginess equals a lack of concentration," says Sherlock, squeezing his eyes shut.

"And why would you need to concentrate?"

"That flower is taunting me."

John glances at the innocent pink petals on Sherlock's bedside table. "Flowers don't taunt. They sit, in the rooms of sick people. That's what they _do_."

"Not the rarest flower in the world."

John's voice has changed from the careful, hesitant one of before, when he was scared of the unknown man in front of him, to the familiar beat of annoyance at Sherlock. The rush of the conversation, so fast, unstoppable like the buzz of a drug has distracted John from the facts: Sherlock is awake, Sherlock is awake, Sherlock is awake. The slip into conversational routine again, as easy as reading a script, lulls John's mind. The ill Sherlock fades into non-existence, to be replaced with the stubborn detective on the peak of a case or the climax of a particularly ridiculous argument.

"You're not a gardener. You could be mistaken."

"Those two sentences do not make sense together. Gardeners are idiots so they would be mistaken. I, however..."

"Am a genius."

"You learn fast."

"Or just someone who collects random flower facts - and remembers them all. You struggle to remember your surname yet not the scientific name of the rarest flower in the world..."

"Shh..."

Sherlock holds up a shaking, weak finger. From it, there a pulse of reality that hits John like a splash of water in the face. Drips of sweat are falling from Sherlock's forehead, and John stands up.

"We shouldn't even be discussing a flower! We need a doctor-"

Sherlock blinks at the sunlight, as if batting away a fly.

"Do you even know where you are?" says John, looking down on Sherlock now, the white of his face, the folds of his skin as his muscles tense in concentration, or pain, or God knows what.

"A toddler would know where he is. Molly..."

"Er, I'm not Molly-"

"No, _Molly_."

"Oh God, _sorry," _says John, turning around, to see Molly leaning awkwardly on the window sill. "I just got distracted..."

"No it's fine," says Molly. "I'm just glad you're awake, Sherlock."

Molly glances between Sherlock and John, who seem to be electrically joined. In fact, it's as if walking between them would interrupt the flow and actually elicit a shock. Most likely in the form of some stinging retribution from Sherlock.

"Okay, I'll be back, to leave you two to… Um…"

"Sherlock?" says John once the door close. "And do you know why you're here?"

"Tell me everything there is to know about that flower. If only I could remember something relevant..."

Sherlock suddenly trails off. Even though Sherlock's eyes are open, there's as much life in him as when he was unconscious. When his eyes slip shut, John is injected with fear and it drips through his veins...

"Sherlock? _Sherlock_?"

Odd images, seemingly random, sharpened by Sherlock's way of seeing the world. Closing in on details anyone else would miss. Tilted to Sherlock's axis.

Sherlock ignores the voice knocking on the door to his mind palace. He can only sacrifice enough energy to tell it to stop by lifting his finger. It does.

How had he not realised he was missing so many memories before? But his surname came back to him, in the form of Baker Street (home). What was he missing now?

Someone playing hopscotch but, like he is 30cm tall, Sherlock can only see ground-level. A builder judging by the shoes, size eleven, forty years old judging by the heaviness of the noise on the ground. An adult, playing a game.

The _game_.

A scab, bloody and picked. Gravel, lodged in it. Life always leaves its mark, particularly when you walk past building works (Oxford Street, and into Soho). But whose marks? Whose scabs? The arm is connected to a phone, and a voice is shouting down it for help – get the army, a doctor, help…

Then a blurred child, pointing at the footprints left in the mud after the builder had long gone. "Let's play a game! So who do those belong to?"

"A builder. Size eleven. Forty years old."

"Ok. Next game! What's my name? You don't know. What's my favourite chocolate bar?"

Sherlock crouches by the child, who is suddenly sitting on the ground, and picks up its hand to turn it over, and he doesn't know why.

The child's face sharpens. It is a girl. With brown plaits.

Rachel.

Suddenly Sherlock's father is leering over him, the only one able to pinprick his protective balloon (make it burst).

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock is gasping, hands are on him and he grips upper arms in fists. John's large eyes fall on his, like a lighthouse to focus on onto when far out of shore. Sherlock looks up at him.

Lost.

"John, I…"

John sits down again by Sherlock's bedside (having jumped up a few moments ago) lowering himself slowly into the chair again; trying to be quiet as possible, as invisible as possible, so Sherlock only concentrates on his voice and not deducing John's fear from his body language: quickened pulse, dilated pupils, twitching muscles.

"You were in a kind of trance."

"That flower…"

"Stop changing the subject. What just happened?"

Sherlock leans back on the pillows, as if complying, but won't stop eyeing the flower.

"Just another trip to my palace," says Sherlock – but surrounded by tubes, monitors, an oxygen mask that's been temporarily taken off (surrounded by equipment that keeps Sherlock alive) - surrounded by all that…the blasé tone trying to convince the world that Sherlock Holmes is immortal, fails.

"It wasn't just another trip to your mind palace, Sherlock."

It takes a very long time for Sherlock to nod his head.

"No… It wasn't."

Sherlock then pats the side of the bed, like a blind man looking for his glasses - somehow, John knows he is searching for the bed remote control. John grabs it and puts the bed into a sitting position. For Sherlock to need help to sit up is unnatural, like the world has got it wrong.

"I remember _her_, Rachel. I remember… A scab. A woodland. My father."

Though John strains to touch, stroke Sherlock's clenching muscles, wipe the sweat off his forehead, he knows that touching would only result in a clammed-up Sherlock. A Sherlock in an honest state requires a rare, delicate balance that John does not want to tip, so he sucks on his tongue to stop himself speaking.

"But I don't remember… John…I don't remember how I got injured. I... don't remember how I got here."

A world where Sherlock is honest about is pain should be world where Sherlock is pretending; like when he disguises himself as 'normal' for a case; it shouldn't be his actual personality. John feels tears coming to his eyes like a physical pain and has to scrunch up his mouth to stop them. He wants to wail, a child lost in the park, the panic of not having the resources or knowledge to do anything.

Sherlock's fists tense around the sheets, causing them to scrunch up, more movement in them than at any other point in the last few days.

"Okay, Sherlock," says John, in a strained but steady voice. "I'm going to page Dr. Nolan. Just to have some checks, okay?"

"No."

"Sherlock, this is beyond me. The doctor needs to be here."

"You're a doctor."

"I'm not _your _doctor-

"You're the only doctor I could ever call my own." And John knows that this is not a compliment from Sherlock – just a statement of fact. "Please. I was remembering."

"Which is why I think it's best I call Dr. Nolan."

"No! Just...I need…" says Sherlock, all tension still in his hands, leaving his voice listless like a deflating balloon. "You to just sit. Just you."

Though Sherlock's words are barely audible, there is a tightness to them that suggests that they could uncoil at any moment, spring wildly in any direction and damage.

"That flower…" says Sherlock suddenly, eyeing the flower on his bedside table again, lips barely moving and his face somehow staing a strained white throughout speaking. "Did you see who brought it in?"

"Why do you care so much?"

"As I said, it should not be there. Or did you think that statement was simply my incoherent ramblings?"

"Sherlock. Of course I didn't. I just think we have other priorities right now.. So, what happened on the day? Talk me through it."

"You know, don't you? Or are you having memory troubles too?"

This is the resilient toddler John knows how to deal with - not the hurt man of before.. Though, John supposes, that stubborn child is hiding that hurt, scared man. Who is trying to convince everyone he's okay. Or, maybe, Sherlock actually believes he's okay. Anger and aggression are just fear and hurt disguising themselves.

"Do you want me to tell you what happened?" asks John. Sherlock doesn't even respond to that apparently idiotic question. Just stares at folded arms. "Okay, but you remember some things. You remember your father. Why do you think that is?"

"You know why."

"Rachel's parents seem to not have hurt her at all," says John quietly, looking wide-eyed at Sherlock – as if that will convince Sherlock to meet his gaze.

"You're wrong. I want to see Rachel. She's being abused. Her body language was protective."

"Maybe because she was spending time with you?"

There is a moment of uncertainty, before Sherlock allows a quick grin, as if the two had to remember how to joke with each other.

"I bought her an ice cream."

"That explains her odd interest in you. She's been asking to visit," qualifies John.

"Hmm…" Sherlock turns his head to John triumphantly. "So, what do I offer that her parents – and the police – don't? A chance to tell the truth?"

"The police interviewed her and she said nothing."

"But she asked for me! She'll only talk to me…I give her some kind of comfort and an abused child needs comfort. Let her visit."

"Did I just hear that right?"

Sherlock grins, but it is quick again: a mere strain on his white face. "Well, it depends on what you heard – but, judging by your shock…yes."

"_You _want to see a _child_? Do you even know what a child is?"

"I believe I have notes on it somewhere."

John's upper arm muscles have still not unclenched and Sherlock has not let go of the sheet.

"Maybe you saw something that wasn't there? After all, it's a subject very close to your heart."

Sherlock's gaze finally moves to John. "This has nothing to do with my _heart_, rather the utter failings of all _your_ brains."

John's heart is hammering hard now. The relief of having Sherlock finally wake up, finally sit up, finally be himself again…is suddenly vanquished by this prickly man, arms folded, defensive. Scared.

"Okay… Sherlock I'm going to call the doctors now. Tell them you're awake."

Sherlock says nothing, as John makes the call. When John returns to his seat, Sherlock isn't looking at him.


	8. A Moment of Weakness

The beds Mycroft demanded had been since removed, and John is cramped, contained by this hospital, this situation, this damned man opposite him who didn't hurt himself in a selfish, game-driven act like everyone expected but to save a girl he barely knew.

_Why_ is the question John wants to ask, yet_ why_ is the only question John doesn't ask.

Sherlock rests his head back on the pillows and closes his eyes. "If I had been awake, I would have seen who brought that flower in and worked it out."

"If you had been awake, there would be no flower. It's just a flower, Sherlock."

The nurses enter then, to do basic checks. They prod and poke, like Sherlock is an experiment or a lab rat and no amount of apologies or niceties from them makes John feel any better about it, even though he knows they're just doing their job, they're just trying to help and, without them, Sherlock would be dead. John has experienced it before, dealing with a patient, watching the pain but not feeling it yourself because you simply…can't. If you did, you would collapse. How can John blame them for not treating Sherlock like John would? Like family. And yet, he does blame them.

Sherlock rolls over when they ask, gives them the information they want, smiles at their jokes, like a compliant toddler.

Like the fight was knocked out of Sherlock when the car hit him.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes," says Dr. Nolan, as he enters. The nurses take their cue to leave. "Vitals are good I see, though we'll have to keep you in for the next week at least to keep an eye on you. Head injuries, as Dr. Watson can testify, are notoriously hard to predict."

John can testify and yet, all the same, to have Sherlock speaking, to have Sherlock reacting, arguing and being generally annoying…To have Sherlock back, when he was so nearly lost, has John giddy.

"Though you're doing well so far. I've known patients to never recover their full use of speech or the full control of their body."

John knows how lucky he and Sherlock have been, especially with Sherlock's resolutely quick recovery so far – but he also knows how far they've got to go. In a hospital setting, life is ready-made, pre-packed and comfortable; real life is sharp, fast and frightening when your brain has had such a shift – especially Sherlock's real life. But he's going to live, he's going to live, he's going to live. A fairly unambitious aim but one John will settle with. The complex repercussions, the unknowable reactions of the human brain (especially one as bewildering as Sherlock's), the shift of life will dictate the rest and John will fight with it as much as he can.

And Sherlock, sitting there through the doctor's speech like the patients he is talking about are unreachable, could never have been him, when he was so nearly one of them. If the car had been going a mile of an hour faster, if Sherlock had moved an inch to the right, if Sherlock had been a step slower…If.

"Everything else, though, is in order. You've almost made a full recovery from your surgery… _Have_ you remembered anything else?"

"No," says Sherlock, staring resolutely at the sheet.

"You may never know what happened if you don't let us tell you-"

"I _know_ what happened. I was hit by a car, judging by every single injury on my body. Obvious. Dull. I know, just as I know that you're going to a job interview in…oh…five minutes?"

"How…"

"The last time I saw you – only yesterday - you had a tie with smudge on-"

"You were semi-conscious the last time I saw you, and you remember that?"

"If that's what I deduced when I was semi-conscious, imagine what I'm deducing now… Anyway, the texture said the stain had been there over a month and a half. Yet you're wearing the same tie today and it has no smudge. Why remove the smudge when you haven't done so for over a month? Not a date because you have a wife, according to your wedding ring. Of course, there's always infidelity, but you're smart, you would password-protect your phone if you were cheating, which you haven't. A work event then."

As Sherlock talks, it seems less and less like he is angrily ranting and more and more like he is getting excited, enthralled, enjoying himself.

"…Not least because you're tie is business-like, not one to attract the ladies. Meetings are weekly at least so that makes no sense, for this needs to be an event that hasn't happened in the past month and a half – an _important _meeting then. Something in it for you. Most likely a job interview or promotion."

There are a few moments of silence, the kind that John has sorely missed. Watching the increasing surprise on Dr. Nolan's face as Sherlock's tongue flicked through an explanation that was obvious to him, watching Sherlock forget his place in the hospital bed even for a minute and watching Sherlock smile, really smile, at the end was like being able to breathe again after drowning.

"So…" says Sherlock, for Dr. Nolan still hadn't spoken. "Just because I don't remember what happened doesn't mean I don't know."

"It _is _a job interview," says Dr. Nolan eventually, his notes on Sherlock clutched, forgotten, in his hand. "But how do you know it's in five minutes?"

"Your pulse rate. Scared."

Dr. Nolan looks dimly down at his wrist. "But you have no equipment, and you can see from _there_?"

"Yes, and my eyesight is no better than yours...Who's that man?" asks Sherlock suddenly, gaze landing on the muted tv. "And _what _is he compensating for? Given the tightness of his shirts, and the frankly worrying haircut, I'd say..."

"Simon Cowell," says John, cutting Sherlock off before he reveals something that could take down Cowell's TV empire.

"Do you not remember who he is?" asks Dr. Nolan, brain still on Sherlock's speech a minute ago, but some worry soaking through.

"Should I?"

"I don't think Sherlock has ever known who he is," says John.

"Oh! Right…If you're sure, good. Anyway, I'll leave you in the hands of the nurses." says Dr. Nolan, leaving the room and chuckling slightly.

"That was…ridiculous," says John, once the door closes.

"You've changed your tune from 'amazing'."

"Well you've never deduced something like that from a state of semi-consciousness before. In fact, I didn't know you remembered…that episode."

"Vividly," says Sherlock.

His gaze has the same intensity as his gazes at a tricky crime scene – but not a searching one. It's as if he is daring John to probe anymore. For a moment, it's as if Sherlock is under the ice again and John is just an unreachable, grey splodge.

"Specifically, that apparently the most magnetising part of you is your grey hair…"

Sherlock trails off.

"Sherlock?"

John's gaze falls on Sherlock's straining hands. It is odd that that is the first thing John notices: white knuckles clutching the bedposts.

"Sherlock? Oh shit…"

Rachel is standing in front of Sherlock again.

"Why would you be left to look after a child?" she is saying, hands resting together like Sherlock's always are. "And why would a drunk driver be speeding in a quiet neighbourhood in the middle of the day? And why would _you_ jump in front of the car?"

Behind her, a crunch of metal, huge and towering is falling towards her like an explosion, from behind, so only Sherlock can see it, and she just carries on smiling...

"You're silly!_" _she keeps saying.

Rachel.

"You're silly!"

Sherlock jumps.

"You're silly!"

And feels like he's left his brain somewhere behind.

Hands are on him, squeezing his arms until it's all he can feel and his the room fills his vision once again and Rachel is no longer there, and the pain is gone.

John's face.

Frowning.

"Sherlock? What happened? Do you remember something else?"

"I-"

Sherlock clamps his mouth shut and leans forward. Before he can even gesture for one, a grey sick bowl is in his hands and he leans into it, dry retching, spitting up water. Sherlock hasn't eaten food in days. John hold back Sherlock's hair, clumped in his palms by sweat.

"Okay, Sherlock. Okay."

Sherlock pushes the sick bowl away from him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock is taking deep breaths. When Sherlock does have to calm himself down, it's usually an invisible process, where the body is totally compliant to Sherlock's dictatorial commands. Sherlock having to stop himself speaking in order to do so makes John want to hold Sherlock's hand and squeeze, just keep squeezing.

"Take your time. Just, breathe," says John, placing the bowl with barely any liquid in gently on the floor.

And for once, Sherlock doesn't snap that he's not an idiot. That he doesn't need John to point out something so obvious. That he can do it _by himself_. He breathes with John, eyeing his friend's movements in a sideward glance, and imitating them.

John hasn't noticed Sherlock's hand edge over to his, but suddenly it is curled round his own, fingers tensing on each inhale. John squeezes back, just keeps squeezing. Slowly, Sherlock's breathing slows down and Sherlock lets go of John's hand, replacing it with his own as he steeples his fingers together.

"I remembered," says Sherlock, in a voice as sharp as the tips of his fingers that his chin is resting on. "Everything."

"Good. That's good that you remembered everything."

"I…" Sherlock closes his eyes. "Jumped. Why did I jump?"

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's…wonderful…Stupid, but wonderful."

"I'm not embarrassed." Sherlock flicks his gaze to John like a weapon. "It just doesn't make sense. Why did I do it?"

"Because you care about her? Perhaps?"

"Why would I care about her?"

"Because…she was a child…who reminded you of yourself as a child?"

"There are thousands of abused children," says Sherlock, screwing up his nose in complete dismissal of John's question.

"It wasn't just that though… I wasn't there, I couldn't say – but, Sherlock, you obviously had, _have_, some affection for Rachel and that isn't going to change, however much you lie to yourself and however big those lies are. I mean, half an hour ago, you were desperate to see her."

"For the case! I was trying to piece together how the crash happened. I don't particularly want to see her anymore – no need."

Sherlock's white face is as stark as the moon compared to the black, night window behind it. It's midnight, twenty four hours or so since Sherlock woke up. John's tiredness is coming in waves, as it does when you've had so little sleep, and right now the tide is retreating and John feels a stony rush of energy.

"What? And so just because you know what happened, suddenly you don't care about her?"

"No! How many times are you going to raise your expectations of me? Because I'll always fail to meet them. When it comes to _caring_."

"You jumped in front of a car for her Sherlock! You obviously care!"

"A moment of stupidity. A moment of weakness."

John is leaning forward in his chair. "A moment of _strength_."

John takes a few deep breaths when he glances at the machine and sees Sherlock's heart rate is rising; an uncaring machine that measures how well they're getting on perfectly. The machine Sherlock likes to think of himself as.

Sherlock's voice is calm again, but his fingers are tapping on the duvet, staring at the flower in the vase. Occasionally, he groans.

"I need my violin."

"You know you can't Sherlock. There are other patients…"

"I need more drugs then."

"Er, no. What are you thinking about?" Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. "Of course. Why are you so obsessed with that flower?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"You've got to take it easy," says John, sighing. "Head injuries can throw anything at you. This isn't over… Sherlock?" Sherlock looks at him, dragging his gaze away from the flower. "Please tell me you know how serious this is."

"I'll be fine."

"No," says John, quite plainly. "You might not. You could have fits for the rest of your life. You could have… I don't want to scare you but…"

"You're not scaring me."

"You could have died."

"But I didn't."

"You were close-

"But I _didn't."_

* * *

**A/N: As per, thank you so much for your kind reviews. It often feels like a throwaway comment to shove that in at the end of the chapter - but it's really not. I'm sure you all know (and many have experienced) how it's the only feedback we get as fic authors so it's correspondingly precious.**

**There is a reason why I haven't included that Rachel/Sherlock climatic scene yet and why, though they're kind of boring and circular, the past few chapters exist. These are all baseline chapters, which are needed for the climax - so I apologise for the fairly samey feel so far. **


	9. Best Laid Plans

The next morning, when John is still curled on the chair, eyes blearily blinking as the sun rises, the first thing Sherlock says is: "Where's my brother?"

"What?"

Sherlock repeats himself, raising his voice

"He visited once but…"

John's phone suddenly rings.

"Ah. He was waiting for the perfect dramatic cue," says Sherlock, glancing around the room, as John pats the wrong pocket for his phone. "There must be recording equipment in this room somewhere then…"

"It's six in the morning."

John has finally found the phone and is staring at the time on the screen as if it's lying.

"John. Phones have many uses, not just telling the time - such as…phone calls. Please demonstrate that use by answering the one that's blaring right now."

John turns away as he places the phone to his ear, as an unenergetic retort to Sherlock's jibe.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock gingerly climbs out of the bed and, getting on his hands and knees, runs his hands over the sides of the bed and searches every possible location for a camera – even locations that John didn't know existed, such as spaces between drawers and behind electrical panelling.

"I can see you in the reflection in the window, you know," says John."

Sherlock pauses searching for a moment. "Oh," he says, before carrying on as if nothing happened.

"Sherlock, you're going to pull out your tubes."

Sherlock reaches at his chest, and rips. "Already out."

Immediately, the monitor starts beeping.

"Jesus, Sher… Sorry, what were you saying, Mycroft?"

"Aha!" says Sherlock, pulling out a microphone from inside a plug socket. "Then again, you can never underestimate Mycroft's stalking abilities… There might be a camera too. Surely that would be easier to spot…"

Sherlock looks around with narrow eyes. John, though, has just hang up and grabs Sherlock under his arms.

"Get the hell off!"

"If you're going to act like a child…"

"What child would search for cameras? Get off!"

"Probably _you_ when you were younger…" John removes his arms, and holds them above his head. "Okay, but you get back into bed or I'm calling the doctor."

Sherlock considers for a moment before conceding and jumping into bed, wrapping the sheets around him. "I'll just search when you're not looking…" he says, though the words are partially muffled by the pillow.

"I'm sure you will, but just humour me will you? Let me get at your chest. I need to…"

Sherlock groans, but moves on to his back. John grabs tubes from the floor and reattaches them, shaking his head as he does so. The monitor stops beeping as it, once again, records his heart rate.

"So Mycroft's coming?"

"Ten minutes. Rachel's coming in half an hour so Mycroft will have to go then anyway."

"Wonderful."

A nurse pops her head round the door. "I heard-"

"It's fine. Just him being… It's fine. Thanks though."

"You don't need anything?"

"Actually, you could do one thing for me…" says Sherlock. "A change of clothes."

The nurse frowns, before speaking very slowly as if Sherlock is very ill. "This is my uniform. I can't change."

"For me," qualifies Sherlock, in a voice that suggested even he hadn't broached the possibility of humanity being this idiotic.

If anything, she looks at Sherlock even more oddly, explaining that the clothes he wore in the crash had been disposed of for obvious reasons and, unless he wants John to go home and get some, they only have lost property. And, anyway, there's health and safety – but Sherlock insists that they're not going to need to resuscitate him now he's medically fit (apart from the small issue of his head), before quickly speaking of the unwavering power of a certain family member of his (the rumour of Mycroft's fussiness and ability to persuade the authorities that he should break the rules – visiting times, extra beds, the best doctors - had spread around the hospital).

"But-" she starts.

Two minutes later, Sherlock is in a baggy white T shirt and baggy grey jogging bottoms.

He looks thinner than John has ever seen him.

"And can you turn the light off too?"

"Of course."

The nurse leaves, no more than a human in scrubs handling equipment she doesn't really understand and trying to do her jobs, leaving John and Sherlock to stare at each other.

_ "_Look at London."

Sherlock is staring out the window, voice suddenly faint. John raises his eyebrows and then moves slowly over to the window, watching over the only London street he can see. Ambulances, slowly driving, lights having no need to flash. A red bus splashing through a puddle, indicating its way through the route it drives every day. Men crouched over in suits, London now an annoyance or something to dismiss, ignoring the tourists for who London is such a novelty. John now knows that it is only a small section of London - a false pretention, a sham projection and not the reality.

"I miss it," says Sherlock.

John can barely understand how London continues without Sherlock.

Or Sherlock continues without London.

"I miss the buzz, the overlapping stories, the people. All of them, walking past so much drama, so many puzzles, so many games, every single day…"

"And not even realising," says John, still by the window, back to Sherlock.

"Yes. Thinking they're life is dull, when it's actually their own minds that are."

That receives a snort of derision from John.

"Little, meaningless lives. And those who are even worse - who think they are so important, because they don't see their true size in the world. Yet, they're happy. How?"

"Most of them. I hope…Ignorance is bliss, Sherlock."

Sherlock leans forward, so he too can see the window – but he is not looking through it, rather at it. He waves. John doesn't even blink. As Sherlock had suspected (known), turning the room light off would remove his reflection from the window.

As John is turned, Sherlock (still speaking) reaches for the single, rare, pink flower in and takes it out the vase, holding it delicately and twizzling it between his forefinger and thumb. He studies it intensely with his eyes (narrowed), hands (caressing) and nose (sniffing) before quickly removing the head, crushing the stalk silently in his hands, putting all the remains into his mouth and swallowing. He closes his eyes as he speaks next.

"Why watch a soap opera, when there is a drama of a much grander scale playing on your door step? An unpredictable one, unlike the plots that television produces."

His speech unaffected by the bits of stalk sliding down his throat.

"Walking through that city is the greatest rush life can give."

Sherlock then slips the pink head into his shirt pocket. From the drawer, he grabs a fistful of syringes and puts them into the vase. The next effort of leaning over and placing the vase with the syringes in under the bed seems the most painful - but Sherlock recovers after a few moments of deep but quiet breaths.

"The city is _it_."

Lightly, Sherlock brushes the surface of the table so no dust remains with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock then takes his phone from the drawer with his possessions and sets a vibrating alarm for three minutes time, then pockets it.

"Thank you for showing me that in this last year," John says quietly.

Sherlock says nothing, just watches John, with a tilted head, like he is trying to understand something -until John turns back, with a small smile, not noticing that the flower and the vase are now gone.

"Dr. Nolan isn't going to like you in those awkward clothes. Why, exactly, did you ask for them? They're filthy."

"I hate hospital gowns. And Dr. Nolan isn't going to be seeing me for a while - Mycroft will be here very soon, and he will prevent any medics from entering the room."

"He can't have control of-"

Sherlock's gaze stops John speaking.

"Mycroft was going to visit today, regardless, and would go as far to set up a fake job interview for poor Dr. Nolan, just to keep the pestering doctor out of the room-"

"You think he did that?"

"I have no doubt. The whole thing _reeks_ of Mycroft, who would relate most to the doctor's ambitions - looking for a new job - rather than any other aspect of his personality. And what Mycroft relates to, he exploits… And I can imagine Mycroft will do everything to keep _this_ pestering doctor," says Sherlock, looking wearily at John, "inside the room."

"Why?"

"He's scared and he want assurance."

"Scared?"

"How have you not seen? He's not been meddling, has he? He was too scared to confront the possibility that my brain might have rotted. And now he's seen on camera – or his cronies have – that I can stay awake for more than five minutes, he's sending in the troops that he was too cowardly to send in before…"

"I can ask Mycroft not to come."

"No, you can't. He'll come anyway." Sherlock's phone starts vibrating. Sherlock grabs it and raises his eyebrows at the screen. "Mycroft wants you to meet him at the entrance."

"Why on earth…? I don't believe for a moment he doesn't know the way."

"He probably wants as much information on me as possible, in a location away from me."

"But-"

"Just go. Placating him will make him easier to deal with. And anyway, have you even been out of this hospital room?"

"I'm not meeting him."

Sherlock closes his eyes. The strength that had so suddenly been pumped into him like a drug, from knowing and seeing the world in clarity yet again, is wearing off - and John is reminded of how weak Sherlock must still be.

"Got and get a coffee anyway."

John is exhausted as well. He's been so concentrated on Sherlock's body, he's almost forgotten his own.

"I'm fine."

"It seems your hormones have a particularly long half-life."

John uncurls himself. It feels like he will be permanently creased. "What?"

"You were fidgeting an usual amount, and now you're back to normal – not fidgeting."

"Um..okay. I always fidget."

"No, that's me. _You're _always very still. Adrenaline's made you fidget and, now it's worn off, the tiredness has hit. You need coffee to replace it…Or sleep. Have you slept properly at all?"

"Well-"

"Don't bother to lie. Go and get some food, coffee and fresh air now. And meet Mycroft in the entrance on the way."

"Sher-"

Sherlock raises a warning eyebrow, a commanding gesture despite the weakness of it. "Go."

"Ok. I'll make sure I'm back in fifteen minutes. I'm telling Molly to come in on the way out though – and I'll phone Mrs. Hudson. She'll want to see you."

"Of course".

And John is too tired to even think _well that was a bit easy_.

John glances at Sherlock's vitals for a few moments, as if wanting to find something wrong just as an excuse to stay, before giving up.

"And put some deodorant on while you're at it," says Sherlock, as John closes the door.

John does as Sherlock asks (even the deodorant part), walking the hospital as a true man lost on his way from the toilets to the coffee machine: taking the wrong turns, looking around too much and finally walking in completely the wrong direction. To walk, feels like a spring uncoiling. Yet, it springs back on itself…

Leaving the hospital room should be freedom.

Yet it's not. John just wants to go back.

John spots Mycroft walking determinedly across the entrance hall as he waits for his coffee, the clicks of Anthea's heels by his side, phone in her hand as always.

"Ah, John," says Mycroft, stopping and observing John as if he's an obstacle to defeat.

"Er, you wanted to speak to me? I was waiting here for you."

For once, Mycroft says nothing, just tilts his head.

"A text." says John. "Sherlock said…"

John trails off at the wide-eyed expression on Mycroft's face. However many expression Mycroft uses, they are all crafted to humiliate the person they're aimed at. They're all part of war. They're his weaponry. But the wide-eyed Mycroft staring at John in that moment is undeliberate, that of a lost child, who doesn't know what to do. Lost in a storm. Panicked.

With an energy more like that of his younger brother, Mycroft has skidded from sight before John can even come to terms with the fact that Mycroft Holmes can run. Anthea, after a few moments glancing manically around, runs in the direction she guesses Mycroft must have gone, heels clapping behind her.

Mycroft Holmes, the dust-free, high-class and sit-down intellectual, does not run. In youth, he had managed to reason his teachers into not making him compete in sports day, let alone take part in PE lessons; and now, if late – though he is never late – he calls a driver, for any distance from ten miles to ten metres, to take him swiftly to his destination; once when his house was broken into, his laziness had resulted in him taking only a few walked, slow steps to the window, completely futile apart from the fulfilment of his curiosity, so he could only watch as his robber scarpered down the street, ancient pearls in one pocket and a top-of-the-range (higher than the public range in fact) lap top in the other. He would rather watch than chase though; Mycroft doesn't run.

Mycroft does not run. So why was he running now, away from the homely and clawing shouts of Anthea? The only thing that would allow him to endure straining legs, dampening sweat, tingling breath, pounding feet and a stamping heart, and completely hopelessness, had him doing so: his younger brother, Sherlock.

John is left standing, mouth still open and ready to finish his sentence on what exactly Sherlock had said.

It is then that his phone rings.

"Lestrade?"

"John!" Lestrade is breathing loudly. His words quick and desperate. "Where are you? Are you with Sherlock?"

"No, I'm just-"

"Is he alone?"

"I think-"

"Go. Now."

John holds the phone to his ear as he runs, dodging people that barely exist to him, pounding up stairs with an energy that he thought he had left behind in his teens.

"What the hell has happened?"

"The court case fell through, with the drunk driver. Something extremely weird is going on here. We had all the evidence – but he just got off!"

"I-"

"Go! I'm on my way. This is not right."

Lestrade hangs up before John can say anything else.

The door of Sherlock's room is already wide open as John sprints in. Mycroft and Anthea are standing in the middle, breathing deeply: Anthea is staring at Mycroft and Mycroft is staring at an empty bed.


End file.
